Chapter Text
Clark Kent.
Bruce looks tiredly at the various, blinking screens on his desk, a hand working his jaw.
The figure on each monitor flashes the world’s sweetest, corniest smile, and Bruce clicks his tongue over his teeth. He’s frustrated—because of course Superman would be a goody-two-shoes reporter. A down-to-earth farmboy from Kansas. Of course he’d wear thick-rimmed glasses and a suit a size too large for his body. Of course Superman would be Clark Kent, because in what world would he not be?
Bruce buries his face in his hands.
Superman— Clark had approached him in Gotham a week ago, having chased after some cosmic, tentacle entity through the border of their separate cities (Metropolis being Gotham’s beautiful, clean, and desirable counterpart). They had run into each other while Bruce was making his rounds that night, and without warning, Superman had grinned, taken his hand, and confidently introduced himself. As Clark Kent.
It was one thing to familiarize yourself with other…vigilantes and metahuman groups with your “hero” façade; it was another thing entirely to expose your true identity within the first five minutes of meeting some vigilante you’d never seen before in a city across from your own. But Superman had done just that.
He must be some naïve fool, Bruce thinks, but he knows that isn’t true. With the name and the internet alone, he’d gotten Clark Kent’s entire life summarized neatly in a folder on his computer. And despite initial appearances, he wasn’t dumb.
The articles he published on the Daily Planet were clean, interesting, properly cited, and well-informed. The issues he presented delved into different aspects of political and scientific knowledge that likely involved a decent amount of research prior to publishing, and Clark seemed to be a well respected reporter throughout the network. There were no blemishes (at least online,) on Clark Kent.
His friends and family were also decently discoverable due to Clark’s address being public; both Martha and Jonathan Kent were upstanding citizens with a small farm plot to their name, and his fiancé, Lois Lane, was also another well respected reporter working alongside him with the Daily Planet. Splendid.
He isn’t quite sure why he is so frustrated with his introduction with the man in blue. Sure, he’d done his research well before they actually met—hell, he’d created a file on Superman the hour he’d gone public—but having this vital information about someone so powerful felt…wrong. To gain access to something with so much gravity—so easily too—made him uneasy. So maybe that was what irked him, he muses, wiping his palm down his face. The accessibility.
Bruce sighs, thoughts rolling uncomfortably in his head. As if careening off a cliff and into a new chapter of his life, he feels anticipation coil tightly in his gut.
The clock on his monitor blinks once as it resets to 0:00. The date beside it also blinks, the numbers and letters flitting quickly to a familiar combination. Jan.01.
“Happy New Years, Master Bruce.” Alfred mutters over the intercom.
“Happy New Years, Alfred,” He responds.
Happy New Years, Batman, says the unmoving, pixelated image of Clark Kent on his computer screen. See you soon.